After Darwish

I want from love only the beginning.Not this hillside above the twilight-awakeningcity, where you are more absentfor being so certain in my mind, the farcathedral a gold nipple, the surrounding buildingslike silver and black boxes puncturedby their lights pushing out. I want from loveonly the beginning. Not the seasidewhere we spoke away the night, the ocean onlyan indigo sound, its edges appearingin melting white lines, while the fog stoodaway from us, out where boats swayed like drunk holiday lights, the air weirdly stilland warm. I want from love onlythe beginning. Not the promenade and its rainat 3AM, the blooms of two umbrellasand our argument beneath them, as far apartas the two boroughs separatedby a river, so that even the stone arcof the bridge couldn’t suture the arm’s lengthwe stood from each other. I want from loveonly the beginning. Not the confessionyou made on another hill: another man, anotherfigure mobilized out of my dreamscapeterror, the coat rack turning into a man with antlers, the ficus turning into a manwith green skin. Below us, the city indifferentwith its diamond streets. I want from love onlythe beginning. The beginning of one moreconversation in a car, the beginningof a snow that leaves the day as whiteas a hospital, the beginning of an industrial dusk,the beginning of a new rain, rain that isthe water of the Arno, the water of the Hudson,the water of the Mississippi, the water of the Nile.

Places I've Been

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